Living is Easy with Eyes Closed
by theherocomplex
Summary: How could I love such a man? In truth, I still do not know.


They said to me, _how can you love such a man?_

In truth, I still do not know.

* * *

A long time ago, I woke with my tongue begging me for the sweet _ovel_ fruits that only grow at the very end of the dry season. The trees save moisture in their trunks through all the arid months, and for one week, before the rains come, the trees burst forth in flower. Hidden among the blooms is the fruit, no bigger than my thumbnail, and full of juice so sweet your mouth will cramp remembering it during the rains.

So I rose, and dressed in my brightest robe, and walked to market.

I had less than three miles to go, but my feet were thick with dust by the time I entered the town. The sun was still close to the horizon, and the air cool and restful. My favorite seller had set up his tent in a shaded corner, as he always did, and he lifted a hand to me when he saw my approach.

"I knew you would come, Irikah," he said, sly as you like. "I have saved you the best of all my wares."

I laughed. I knew Noar well, after so many years of buying from him, and he flattered all his customers. But my breath stopped when he lifted a small basket from under his table - the berries gleamed orange and gold in the light, and I could smell their juices. The basket was heavy in my hands.

For once, Noar had not lied.

"And what fortune will you demand today, Nowin? If I know you, it will be all I have and more."

It was his turn to laugh. "A mere seventy-five credits, Irikah."

"A mere -!" I was ready to bargain him down, but a flicker of light caught my eye. I gave it no more than a glance as it moved over the growing crowds, but when I saw it settle upon a merchant and grow steady, my feet moved without my instruction.

_Red laser sight, unmoving and immovable. I throw myself between the light and the beating heart it seeks. A breeze sweeps down from the mountains in the north, tinge of moisture and chill as the rains are born high on the peaks. I watch the crowd, seeking the one who would dare destroy this morning with a promise of violence. The river roars on and on in the distance. And the fruit falls to my feet, forgotten. _

I stayed where I was, hands fisted at my sides, long after the crowd dispersed and even Noar gave me strange glances. I said nothing to any of them. I had nothing to say except to the one whose eyes I had sought. He would come.

The man, when he came, was graceful, but he stumbled when he saw me. I kept my eyes flat and cold while he walked toward me. I would not give him the forgiveness of speaking first.

When he fell to his knees before me, he knelt in the fruit and crushed them. The smell - thick, cloying, and so sweet my eyes watered - surrounded us.

"Arashu," was the first word I heard him say. His voice was the wind out of the mountains, lonely among the peaks.

I hated him. A killer, for pleasure or for pay, and I wanted nothing more to do with him. Looking on his face made me ill. It took an effort to force myself to speak to him.

"Not Arashu," I said. "Just Irikah, and now we are done. You will not kill here, not today."

He lifted his head. "Nor any other day. I promise you, this place shall remain safe. _Irikah_."

Part of me sang at the way he said my name, but I quailed from him and fled, my bare feet slipping in the fruit.

* * *

He was patient, and sought me out much later.

"Irikah."

I closed the door in his face.

He stayed there for a day and a night, in silence, in the rain.

Finally, after I dreamed about him without respite, I threw open my door.

"What do you want?" I demanded. His eyes never left mine.

"Forgiveness," he said, simple as a sunset.

"I don't have any for you," I said, "but you might as well come in."

My parents were gone to town. We were alone. I gave him soup still warm from the pot and a hot sweet loaf made from the last of the winter wheat. He ate hungrily but neatly, no crumbs left on the plate when he was done.

He folded his hands on my table. "Thank you, siha."

I laughed at him. "I am no siha. My parents are farmers. I know the land." When he said nothing, I tried cruelty. "Why did you come here? You know I never wanted to see your face again."

"I came for forgiveness," he said. I turned my back on him and watched the rain through my window.

He left, silently. He left the last of the _ovel_ fruit, gone tart and almost sour, on his plate.

* * *

My parents died and I buried them high on the hills, where they could watch their fields flower and their daughter grow old. I decided I would never marry.

And yet my mind insisted on dreaming of him, black-eyed assassin, who moved like water and asked my forgiveness. A murderer, a thief of life, and yet. And yet.

Sometimes, when the animals in the grass were quiet and the stars seemed very close overhead, I would walk to the edge of the river and watch the current break upon the rocks.

I told myself I was no siha, and he would tire of me eventually. I told myself not to wish for unwise things.

Always, on the mornings after these nights, I found leaves from the _ovel_ tree on my doorstep when I woke.

And yet. And yet.

* * *

He waited two years before he came back, on a day that straddled winter and summer. I was older then, and kinder. Lonely, too.

I saw him walking down the winding path that cut through the hills. A basket balanced on my hip, full of roots and herbs. His eyes never left mine, dark as the distant river.

"If you plan to keep coming to see me, you should give me your name."

He smiled, and I could not stop my heart from opening to him.

"I am Thane," he said. "And this time, I would stay, siha."

I turned the thought over in my head. My house had echoed with only my steps for too long. "Why me?" I asked. "Why this place?"

"Because your eyes woke me, and I do not wish to return to my sleep." He held out his hands. I handed him the basket.

"Then let me show you the garden," I said. "It needs weeding."

* * *

He would not touch me. I came to him first, when I was tired of dreams and my narrow bed.

"Thane," I said, from the doorway.

"Yes," he said, and opened his arms to me.

* * *

I showed him my hills and fields, the secret cool places by the river and the deep pools where fish clustered so closely they could not swim. We ate what we gathered, and never spoke of his other life, his sleeping life.

That I discovered on my own, through snatched moments with my private terminal. Thane knew, and it saddened him, but I had promised him forgiveness and I would not take it away. I wished to know, for my own sake.

"We should be married," he said, over breakfast. I dropped my spoon.

"Are you not happy as we are?" We had a good life, a quiet life.

"It is not proper -" he began, and I laughed.

"Oh, who cares what two farmers do?"

"It is what I wish, siha." My laughter went dry. "Will you give me this?"

Time had proven I could not refuse him. I looked down at my hands. "Yes," I said. "Yes."

* * *

He crowned me with _ovel_ leaves that rasped and trembled against each other in the wind. The clouds were growing over the mountains.

"The rains are coming," I said. "We should get the farm ready."

He hummed, saying neither _yes _nor _no. _I nudged him.

"Did you hear me?"

"Summer will be a good time to think about starting a family," he said, and smiled. "Once the farm is put to rights."

I swallowed. "Once the farm is put to rights," I agreed.

* * *

He went back to work. We never spoke of where he went. He disappeared for days at a time, sometimes weeks, and I missed him with a bitter, unending pain.

When the child came, he stayed at home more. He sang to our son, in the early mornings before the rains began, when he thought I could not hear. I hid outside the door to listen.

Our son was strong. My husband was proud. My fields gave us good wheat.

I was happy.

* * *

When they came, our son was away with a friend, exploring the hills. I was watching a show about the Citadel.

They broke down our door. I had enough time to turn off the screen and compose myself before the first blow hit.

When I could no longer see, one of the men pulled my head up and spat in my face.

"How can you love such a man?"

_Smell of fruit, sweet and sticky, the flesh between my toes as I run. Black eyes, seeking forgiveness. Footsteps coming down from the hills. Fresh bread. Washing our hands together as the sun sets. His mouth on my neck, my hands, my thighs. Our son squalling in the dark. The river, running on and on forever, always breaking on the rocks._

"Ovel leaves," I said.

They hit me again, and did not stop.

* * *

How could I love such a man? I do not know. All that matters is that I did, and that I will not regret.


End file.
